Prologue — The Road Back
There are places you stop visiting long before you stop remembering them.
That afternoon, I found myself walking toward one of those places.
The pavement beneath my shoes was cracked in places, patched in others. Weeds had pushed through the narrow spaces near the curb. I kept my eyes lowered as I walked, following one faded rectangle of concrete after another as if the road itself were giving me instructions.
I had taken this route countless times when I was younger.
Back then, my legs were shorter, afternoons seemed longer, and going home before sunset felt like surrendering precious hours of freedom.
Now, I walked slowly.
Maybe I was afraid that if I looked up too soon, the place ahead would be different.
Or maybe I was afraid it wouldn’t be.
Neither possibility sounded particularly comforting.
A bicycle bell rang somewhere behind me. I stepped aside without looking. A child laughed from across the street. The sound faded, replaced by the rustle of leaves and the distant noise of traffic.
Then, little by little, I raised my head.
The trees came first.
Then the old fence.
Then the playground.
And beyond it, almost exactly where my memory had left it—
the swing.
I stopped.
For a moment, the afternoon in front of me disappeared.
The faded metal regained its color.
The trees became smaller.
The road behind me filled with voices I had not heard in years.
And suddenly—
I was a child again.
